Ripple Effect
by girlwithoutfear
Summary: New chapters added! How do the citizens of Hell's Kitchen view blind attorney Matt Murdock? People who know Matt react to the rumors that he is actually Daredevil. Some days in the life of Matt Murdock.
1. A Little Off the Top

A/N: I originally planned to write more chapters to this fic. I've recently added another chapter, and will continue to do a few more "days in the life" of Matt Murdock in his civilian guise.

Ripple Effect: A Little Off the Top

Matt Murdock sauntered up the cracked sidewalk of the Hell's Kitchen side street to Doc Burnett's barbershop. It was a Saturday morning, the warmth of the sun filtering between the awnings on the old buildings, so he was in no particular hurry. As Matt came to the end of the block, the aroma of bay rum and Old Spice filled his nostrils. His cane tapped the old wooden barber pole that had stood beside this doorway for decades. He remembered the blue and red stripes that spiraled around it, and wondered if anyone had ever repainted that thing.

"Looking scruffy, Counselor!" Doc Burnett chided as Matt came in the shop. Most of the time now, everyone saw Matt as the buttoned-down attorney in the expensive suits, so it was a surprise to see his muscular torso clad in a Columbia University t-shirt that had seen better days. Matt sported a good week or so worth of beard, having been on a type of sabbatical from both his day job at the law firm of Nelson and Murdock, and from his "other" job, fighting crime as the crimson-costumed Daredevil. He was just now getting over the sore muscles and bruises of his last round of clearing crime on the streets of the Kitchen.

"And good morning to you, too, Doc." Matt took his place in line on the bench next to the window. He greeted the other men, settling next to the worn table with its stack of reading material, leaning his white cane in the corner out of the way. With a sly grin, he reached over and grabbed one of the worn periodicals, intentionally holding it upside down in front of him. "Don't you EVER get any new magazines in here?"

"Don't you EVER have any new jokes, Matthew?" Doc shot back, grinning. How many times had Matt done this over the years? "Got two more ahead of you, son."

Doc recalled to himself how Jack Murdock had brought Matt in when the boy was so small that his feet dangled off the wooden plank that served as a makeshift booster seat, spanning the arms of the big leather barber's chair. _I remember the first time Jack brought him in after that accident. Terrible thing to happen to a young guy._ Doc shuddered slightly with the thought.

That morning, so many years ago, Doc had settled Matt into this same chair, pulled the towel around his shoulders, and was trying to make polite conversation when he clicked on the electric clippers. A startled Matt almost jumped out of the chair. Little did Doc realize that the accident that took Matt's sight had heightened his other senses to the extent that the hum of the clippers was like the roar of a jet engine to him, and the vibration rocked through the base of his neck like a shock wave. The look of distress on Matt's face told Doc to try something else. He picked up the scissors and his straight razor and finished the job. It was this gesture of understanding on Doc's part way back then that had kept Matt coming back to him year after year (except for those long-haired college days), even when some suggested that he might get a more stylish, not to mention expensive, cut uptown in a trendy salon.

"OK, Matt, your turn." Matt rose and Doc ushered him over to the worn leather chair. "What'll it be today?" He clipped the vinyl cape around Matt's neck, removed his dark glasses and set them on the ledge in front of the mirror.

"Um…for starters, how about a 'little boy regular'." That's what Jack had always called a typical haircut. "Then, I'd like to get you to trim this stuff up for me to get me started toward that GQ look that Foggy thinks I should try these days." He rubbed the stubble on his chin. This was the first time Matt had decided to try a decent beard, because it just didn't work with the mask too well. Now that he was hanging up the tights, here was his chance. "He's really jealous because I can grow a goatee and he can't even get arrested for an attempted mustache."

Doc snipped away at Matt's red hair while the towels heated in the steamer, making small talk about how quiet the neighborhood had been lately. He brushed away all the cut strands, then tilted the chair back and swathed Matt's upturned face with the moist towels.

Matt sighed. He could remember seeing men get shaved when he was a little kid, and now he knew why they would line up on that wooden bench and wait their turns for this. Man… for a guy who could feel every pore on his body, this was some kind of wonderful. For almost five seconds, he reveled in the moment. Then Matt caught a snippet of conversation amongst the waiting clientele. He smiled under the weight of the towels.

"Yeah, things around here in the Kitchen have been different since that Daredevil guy ran out all the drug dealers…"

"Wonder how he managed to whup up on all those guys?"

Then a whisper from a younger voice…"Wait, didn't I hear something about DD being a blind lawyer? It's not this guy over here, is it? Didn't Doc call him counselor or something when he walked in?"

Another whisper…"Shhhhh…naw, no way, man. This dude is way too skinny. Besides, I've seen DD in action on the streets, and there is no freakin' way he's blind. Saw him knock a guy right between the eyes with that billy club of his. Freakin' awesome."

With a flourish, Doc whisked away the now cooling towel, and applied the warm soothing lather he had been whipping up in the old ceramic cup with a soft-bristled brush. He began to work his magic sculpting Matt's goatee and mustache. A few deft strokes later with the straight razor, and Doc was wiping away the traces of the fragrant lather, rubbing the aftershave between his palms, and gently slapping it on Matt's cheeks. He uprighted the chair and swung it around to face the mirror before he caught himself. "Looks good, trust me, Matt" he said, glancing at Matt's reflection in the worn, streaked mirror. He handed Matt his dark glasses. _He grew up to be a good-looking guy, despite the accident. Shame his dad didn't live to see it_, Doc thought.

"Oh, I do, Doc. Pass me my cane and I'll get out of your way." As Doc retrieved the stick from the corner, Matt fished a pair of carefully folded bills from his wallet. He took his cane from Doc, pressed the money into the barber's hand, and waved as he departed. "Thanks, again."

Barely out the door, Matt heard one of the men say, "No way…". He smiled, and headed back home.


	2. A Needed Lift

Eddie O'Reilly swung the spotless black Lincoln Town Car up to the curb. He jumped out and in one fluid motion had the rear door open. "Good evening, Mr. Murdock!"

"Yes, it is, Mr. O'Reilly!" Matt Murdock folded his tall frame into the back seat of the luxury car. He slid across the smooth leather seat to the right hand side, putting his briefcase on the floorboard, thinking how nice it was to travel this way, not to smell the dregs of humanity in the back of a city cab. Since the mess with the tabloids about his secret identity, Matt had to be careful about climbing into just any mode of transit, so the firm had hired Executive Limo Services to be the drivers for both Matt and Foggy. It wasn't just a perk; it was a necessity. "And how many times must I ask you to call me Matt, Eddie?"

Leaning into the doorframe, Eddie replied with a smile in his lowered voice, "Just following company policy…Matt." He closed the heavy door and climbed back into the driver's seat. Eddie was always glad to drive Matt anywhere he needed to go (even if that meant to Jersey), because it was Matt who had recommended him to this limo company after Nelson and Murdock had retained their services. It meant a steady income and driving a decent vehicle after all these years of scraping by, hustling fares.

O'Reilly had been a cabbie all his adult life. He had an excellent driving record, never having been in a wreck that he had caused, but he had seen his share. The one that always stuck out in his mind happened the first week on the job with the City Cab Company. He was trying to get across town when traffic suddenly snarled. The trouble was about half a block ahead, and like everyone does, Eddie jumped out of the cab to see what the problem might be. A crowd was gathering in the street around a prone figure.

"Somebody call an ambulance!"

In an era before there was a cell phone in every pocket, Eddie grabbed the mic in his cab and called in to his dispatcher, asking him to please send an ambulance to the scene. He threw the mic onto the seat, slammed the door and ran up to find a young boy lying in the street, a canister of some sort of liquid spilled onto his face from an overturned truck.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Get that stuff off him!", someone in the crowd yelled. But it was too late. The damage was done. A selfless act by a young Good Samaritan had saved an old man from being hit by a truck, but the result was something that would have a ripple effect in Hell's Kitchen for years to come.

By the time Matt Murdock was able to afford a cab ride, Eddie O'Reilly was an independent driver who owned his own cab. He maintained a no-smoking policy long before it was law, and even though it had seen its better days Eddie's Checker was always spotless. He didn't know it, but the distinctive smell of the Armor-all he used inside was the signal for Matt to hail his particular cab. Decent cabbies were hard to find, and fewer still were available in the Hell's Kitchen neighborhood, so when Matt sensed it was Eddie stopping, he was always glad. Eddie had begun to look out for Matt, too, noting his routine of sorts so he could be available when possible. Thus they had gotten to know each other over time, always having pleasant conversation. Matt learned of Eddie's two kids and schoolteacher wife, and Eddie laughed at Matt's self-effacing jokes about his growing law practice. They made a bright spot in each other's day.

Eddie glanced in his rearview mirror at the red-haired man in the back seat, eyes obscured by dark red lenses in gunmetal gray frames. He had heard the rumors, read the tabloids, about how they were claiming that Matt Murdock and Daredevil were one and the same. But Eddie didn't believe it. He had watched Matt grow up in the Kitchen; the blind kid was easy to spot on the crowded streets. Now he was this respectable, successful lawyer. Why would people want to ruin his life with all this nonsense? Yeah, it was probably petty jealousy, all right.

"Where to, Matthew?"

"Clinton Housing Authority Office. I've got a hot date."

"Bet she's a real looker, too, huh?" Eddie pulled away from the curb into traffic.

"Heh, you could say that, Eddie…"


	3. Man on a Mission

The alarm clock sang its one note song. One well-placed slap and it fell silent. Matt stretched and yawned, kicking off the satiny sheets. He rolled off the side of the bed, shaking the cobweb of dreams from his head. He had gotten a decent night's sleep for a change since he hadn't taken to the rooftops last night, and wasn't too rushed this morning, so it seemed to be a good chance for him to visit the bakery. _Maybe I'll stop in Kujava's for a danish before work_, he thought.

There were some good things about Hell's Kitchen that had not changed since Matt, in his alternate persona of Daredevil, had taken down the Kingpin of crime, and run the criminal element out of the area. One of them was the neighborhood bakery owned by the Kujava family. This second generation business was a mainstay on the street, the place for hot donuts and pastries, and the wondrous confections beautifully sculpted for special occasions. All that fancy work was lost on Matt, but he knew a good danish when he wrapped a lip around it.

Matt heard his stomach offer up a loud growl when he got the first yeasty whiff of the bakery, still nearly a good city block away. His pace quickened slightly, and he deftly sliced his way through the early morning crowd, parting the sea of humanity with his white cane, toward that siren scent. _Stand aside_, he mused, _blind man on a mission. There's a pastry with my name on it in there._

Once in the door, Matt navigated around the displays of towering wedding cakes and dainty petit-fours. He found the post near the counter that held the take-a-number machine, and drew a slip of paper from its grasp. Matt couldn't let on that he knew he would be number 47, just by feeling the ink on the ticket, so when Mary Kujava greeted him, he waved it in the air. "How far down the line am I today, Mary?"

"Serving number 43, right now, Mr. Murdock. But I'll be right with you in a minute."

Mary Kujava was taking down a full rack of hot glazed donuts, fresh from the fryer, and filling the display case next to the muffins and sweet rolls. She was a pleasant, plain-looking woman, in her early forties, who had married into this family business, but loved it as if she had been born into it.

She wiped a flour smudge off her face with a towel, and leaned over the counter towards Matt, standing on a box behind the display case, just so she could reach over it. Matt knew her little secret, because he could hear the creak of the wooden crate as she stepped up on it. He judged her to be about five feet tall, at best. He flashed a megawatt smile that made her heart flutter. Mary blushed faintly. He was so tall and good -looking, always so nice to her. Most men who came in here just looked right past her, like she were part of the fixtures. Matt was never that way; well, he couldn't look right past her, but he made her feel…like her presence mattered. "What could I get for you today, sir? We have fresh donuts, hot blueberry muffins, some wonderful cream cheese and strawberry danish…"

Matt picked up on her little palpitation. He often had that effect on the ladies, and it amused him a teeny bit that he could know that Mary was not immune to the Murdock charm, but he never let on. She was a sweet lady, and he was not really trying to flirt with her. Matt queried, "What did you just bring out of the back?"

"Ah…glazed donuts, can't get 'em any fresher than this, Mr. Murdock!"

"Great, let me take a dozen of those in for the office staff, and let me have a couple of those strawberry Danish you were talking about."

"Coming right up, sir." Mary turned away to box up a dozen of the still steaming donuts. _I keep reading so much about him in the papers. They say he puts on a devil costume and beats up thugs at night. Now, how could that be true about a guy who is this nice?_ Mary found herself thinking as she laid the donuts carefully into the crisp white box and closed the cellophane-centered lid. _I've seen him come in here for years now. Always polite to a fault, always a pleasant attitude. _Turning back to the case in front, she leaned in to get the flaky Danish pastries for which her family was so well known. She stacked them with waxed paper between and folded the top down on the crinkly white paper bag. _I just don't know how anyone would mistake him for a crime-fighting superhero, especially since he's so obviously blind. No one would fake that. Besides, I've heard the stories about how it happened. Why don't they just leave him alone with that press garbage?_

Mary shook her head, and looked up at Matt, who was still smiling at her. _Man, is he ever a good-looking guy. Wonder why somebody hasn't snapped him up yet? _She leaned across the counter again, the boards creaking under her feet. "That'll be $8.75, Mr. Murdock. There's a box and a bag here." She handed him the box with the bag set on top.

Matt set it on the counter in front of him. He pulled a ten from his wallet, crisply folded longways down the middle, and handed it to Mary. "Please keep the change."

Mary rang up his sale and dropped the change in the tip jar. "Here's your receipt, sir, and thank you." _If I were single and fifteen years younger…_

Matt put the receipt in his wallet, gathered up the fragrant pastries, and threaded his way back out through the gathering throng of patrons. Once outside, he paused for a moment to inhale deeply the wonderful scent of the bakery. _Mission accomplished._


	4. You Want Fries with That?

Ripple Effect

Chapter 4

The Moonlight Diner was one of those neighborhood places that seemed like it had been around forever. As far as Matt Murdock knew, it had been.

Jack Murdock used to take Matt there on a fairly regular basis. The food was cheap and the menu was the typical fare of any greasy spoon place in the Kitchen. For a few bucks, they could both chow down on a hot bowl of chili, or a decent BLT, and finish up with a slice of Mrs. Torelli's famous (or so Matt thought) lemon meringue pie, all served by a waitress named Dottie, whose beehive hairdo rivaled the Empire State Building in height. Matt thought she was wonderful, even if her lipstick was a bit too bright, and she drew her eyebrows on with a pencil. And that hair was flaming red.

If Jack won his boxing match, the next day he and Matt would head over to the Moonlight to celebrate. That's when Dottie would bring them a menu, and Matt would get to pick out something special, maybe a chicken fried steak with those huge onion rings and a hot fudge sundae for dessert. Jack would be in a really good mood, and he'd leave Dottie a big tip, even if he really couldn't afford it.

After Matt's accident, when he had gotten confident enough to let Jack take him out to eat again, Dottie always made sure to let him know what the specials were without him having to ask. She knew to tell him where she set things on the table, and where things were on his plate. Dottie didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable dealing with a blind person. She never talked too loudly like a lot of people.

When Matt went off to college, he would sometimes drop by with his roommate and best friend, Franklin "Foggy" Nelson. Dottie was still there at the Moonlight, serving up steaming bowls of stew or the blue plate special meatloaf. Matt introduced his favorite waitress to Foggy, and she would make sure the two college boys didn't go away hungry.

Dottie was one of the few people who attended Jack Murdock's funeral. She sat way in the back of the church, but Matt knew she was there. He could smell her distinctive perfume, mixed with the scent of the heavy-duty hairspray she used to keep that tower of hair in place. He was glad she cared enough to come. Not many people did.

-o-

Fast forward a few years.

The familiar smell of the grill greeted Matt when he and Foggy stepped inside the Moonlight Diner. "Doesn't look much different today than when you first dragged me in here, Matt. I swear they still have the same grease spatters on the wall behind the counter," Foggy quipped. "Hey! Dottie still works here?"

"Last time I was here, she was. Do you see her?" Matt knew she was there. He'd just caught a whiff of that familiar Dottie scent. 'Charlie' perfume, or something like that.

Foggy waved across the room at her, catching her eye as she refilled a customer's coffee cup. "She's at the counter, Matt. You wanna sit there, or would you rather grab a table?" Foggy began to propel Matt across the crowded diner floor, quite forgetting that he didn't need the help.

"Counter's fine. Slow down, will ya?" Matt laughed at his partner's haste. Foggy was always hungry, and this place had always had good food.

"Matt! How in the devil are you, young man?" Dottie's vibrant voice rose above the din of the diner. "Come on over here, fellas!" She rushed around the end of the counter and grabbed up both men in a joyful bearhug. It was old home week.

Matt returned the hug, and held Dottie out at arm's length. "Dottie, you haven't changed a bit! Huh, Foggy?" He elbowed his friend in the ribs.

"Nope, not a bit! Still the same lovely Dottie. And the Moonlight still looks like it did when we were in college, Matt. Except for the prices, it's all the same."

"Well, have a seat, boys! What can I get you? Special today is the meatloaf. How's about that?"

"Do you still make that gigantic burger here? I think I'd like that, and some fries. How 'bout you, Fog?"

"As long as I can get a chocolate shake with those fries. Okay, Dottie?" Foggy was being his usual weight-conscious self.

"You bet, fellas. What do you want to drink, Matt?"

"Just water, please. With lemon if you have it."

"Well, aren't we all fancy these days?" Dottie guffawed. Turning to the back where the cook was slaving over the grill, she shouted, "Two Moonburgers, straight through the garden. Drop some fries."

Once again facing the counter, she said, "Coming right up with those drinks, guys. Be right back!"

Matt slapped Foggy on the back and grinned. "Some things are just so dependable, huh, buddy? Can you believe she still works here after all these years? Old gal must be a hundred now. She was no spring chicken when I was a kid!"

"Yeah, she'll probably fall over one day behind the counter, and all that hair will break her fall."

"She doesn't still have that big ol' beehive does she?"

"One and the same. Wouldn't be Dottie without it. Still the same color, too. Bright ass red. Uh--not that there's anything wrong with red hair, Matt. But some things just ain't natural, you know?"

Dottie bustled back with their drinks, followed shortly by the sizzling burgers. "Burger at ten, fries at six, Matt. Ketchup at twelve."

"Thanks, Dottie. Sounds like Foggy is halfway through his already. Am I right?" Matt teased.

"Mmmph?" Foggy mumbled, swallowing hard. "I'm hungry, Matt! Quit makin' fun of the fat boy!" He followed the remark with a long slurp of his milkshake. "Just because you're Mr. GQ..."

"Doesn't look like your friend has missed many meals, Matt. You boys enjoy your lunch. I'll check back with you."

Dottie shook her head, her stiffly coiffed 'do never moving. _**I'd never have guessed little Matt Murdock would grow up to be such a successful lawyer. Why, look at that suit he's wearing. His dad probably never collected a paycheck in a month's time for what that cost. **_ She wiped the counter with thoughtful strokes, glancing up at the two friends laughing over their meal. _**I've read the papers, what they said about him. That's not the Matt I know. Kid never had a mean bone in his body. His dad saw to that. **_

She had never told Matt that the reason she knew how to handle a blind customer was because her own dad had lost his sight in the war, before she was born. Having a blind person around was second nature to her, no big deal. After Matt's accident, she'd treated him with the same respect she had for her father. It was what he probably needed the most back then. Respect, not pity.

Foggy signaled her for the check, and she asked who should get it.

"I'm going to arm wrestle Matt over it," Foggy chided as Matt looked back at him with feigned shock. "I'll take care of it. Thanks again, Dottie. Good to see you!"

"Yeah, good to see you again, Dottie." Matt turned and unfurled his cane to follow Foggy out. He stopped, pulled out a bill and laid it on the counter. "Take care now." He smiled and waved over his shoulder.

Dottie picked up the bill and could hardly believe what she saw. It was a crisp twenty, with a single fold down the length of the bill.

"Even folds his money like Dad did," she murmured.


	5. The View Never Changes

Ripple Effect: The View Never Changes

The office temp looked at the schedule as Matt walked in the door. "Good morning! You have a client at ten this morning, and don't forget your appointment with Dr. Woodard at two o'clock, Mr. Murdock. Mr. Nelson called to say he would be in around eleven."

"Thank you, Sandra. Is there anything scheduled late this afternoon?"

"No, sir, that's all that's on your schedule. Would you like some coffee?" Sandra liked this job, and she hoped she could someday get on full time at Nelson and Murdock. The bosses were nice, and the hours were good.

Matt smiled in her direction. "Not now, thanks. I'll get some later." He hung up his coat and parked his cane in the corner next to the coat rack in his office. He had reading to do before his client came in, so he got busy with that first thing.

* * *

The client meeting ran a little long. Matt leaned out his office door and asked Sandra to order him a sandwich since he was running late. "You want anything, Foggy?" he called over his shoulder into the other office. "I'm gonna get a corned beef on rye. Want something from the deli?"

"Yeah, I'm starved, and it's my turn to buy." Foggy Nelson was always hungry, it seemed. He got up, stretched for a moment, and came out into the foyer. He fished a couple of bills out of his wallet and handed them to the temp. "Here you go, Sandra. I'd like a pastrami on pumpernickel, plenty of mustard and a dill pickle on the side. Tell 'em it's for Nelson and Murdock, and they'll know how to fix 'em. Oh, and get yourself something, too. There should be enough there." Foggy smiled at the girl. She might just be the one they'd been looking for. _Cute, too. Always a plus, _he thought. _If she doesn't work out as a temp, maybe she might go out with me._

Sandra looked at the bills in her hand. "Thank you, Mr. Nelson! That's very kind of you. Did you want anything to drink with that?" She put on her coat and stuffed the money in her purse.

"We've got some sodas in the 'fridge. That okay with you, Matt?"

"Do we have any bottled water in there?"

"Probably. I'll check." Foggy disappeared into the small break room. "Uh...yeah, there's a couple in here. I'll pick some more up on the way home tonight. We're good."

"Anything else?" Sandra asked, knotting her scarf around her neck.

"That should do it," Matt answered. "Thanks."

* * *

Sandra came back from the deli and shook the snow off her coat. "I'm back. Do you want me to bring these to your offices, or put them in the break room?"

"We'll take it in the break room." Matt leaned against his office door. More often than not, they each ate in their respective offices, but they had a little time, and Matt didn't feel like starting something else before he went to his appointment. "Why don't you join us, Sandra? Foggy? Are you ready to eat? Wait—that's a rhetorical question. Don't bother to answer." He laughed and slapped his partner on the back as he followed Foggy into the break room.

Sandra began pulling the food from the bag and before she even got it set on the table, Matt knew which sandwich was his. His stomach growled approvingly, and he hoped he was the only one to hear it. The crinkling of sandwich paper only made things worse. Foggy got the drinks from the refrigerator and bumped Matt's hand with a bottle of water. "Here ya go, buddy."

"Corned beef on rye for you, Mr. Murdock," Sandra said as she carefully laid his sandwich in front of him, "and pastrami on pumpernickel for you, Mr. Nelson. I hope you don't mind that I just got myself a salad. No onions, I promise, so I don't offend anyone." She looked up at Foggy, then cast a quick glance at Matt. She still didn't know how to read him. "Oh, and here's your change."

"If you're talking to me, Sandra, you don't have to worry. Foggy eats enough of them for all of us, and besides, I'll be out of the office this afternoon." Matt felt his watch. Already one o'clock.

"Gee, thanks, Matt. Way to make me look good. Where ya going, if I may ask?" Foggy flopped on the office couch and put his feet up.

"Yes, you may ask, and I'll tell you," Matt replied with a characteristic smirk. "I'm going for my annual visit to the eye doctor. That okay with you?" He wasted no more time biting into his sandwich.

Foggy put his hands behind his head and smiled back. "What's he gonna tell you? 'Mr. Murdock, I have come to the medical conclusion that you are _still_ blind.' Is that it? I've always wondered why a blind guy needs an ophthalmologist."

Sandra looked across her salad at Foggy in wide-eyed amazement. She would never think to say such a thing, even though she'd thought it herself when she made the appointment for Matt.

Matt swallowed, took a sip of water, and replied, "Simple, Fog. Even though I can't see squat, I still have to keep up with the physical condition of my eyes. They check the pressure to make sure I'm not getting glaucoma. Not that I could tell any difference. Stuff like that. I've been going to the same guy since I got out of the hospital after the accident. Don't know what I'll do when he retires."

"Wow. The guy must be ancient by now. That was—what—twenty years ago, almost? Better start looking for his replacement."

"Yeah, I'll do that. This is great corned beef."

* * *

Matt brushed and flossed his teeth in his private bathroom, making sure he wouldn't smell like the deli when he saw the ophthalmologist. He'd wondered a few times how doctors and dentists could handle being up close and personal with patients who had rank breath. Well, maybe it didn't bother them like it would him.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Sandra," he said as he shrugged on his overcoat, grabbed his cane, pulled a cashmere scarf from his pocket, and wrapped it around his neck. "Goodnight, Foggy!"

"Later, dude." Foggy returned to the pile of papers on his desk.

"Did you need me to call the car service?" Sandra asked quickly, thinking she had slipped up and not thought about it sooner.

"No, I'm going to walk. It's chilly, but not snowing much, and it's only a few blocks. Thanks anyway." Matt waved at her on his way out the door. _Cold enough to keep the reporters at bay for a little bit, though,_ he thought.

"I'll see you in the morning, then, Mr. Murdock. Bye." As the door shut behind him, Sandra flinched at the thought that maybe she should have used another phrase instead. _Although, Mr. Murdock didn't seem to mind_, she mused.

* * *

Harold Woodard grabbed tiredly for the chart in the file rack outside the examination room. _Matthew Murdock, age thirty-one, injury at age fifteen when caustic chemicals burned both eyes. No light perception in either eye due to degradation of corneas and trauma to optic nerves. _The doctor closed the folder, and steeled himself to go in and face the man he had first examined as a boy. _One of the worst cases I've ever had to deal with. Poor kid didn't stand a chance._ He took a deep breath, and forced a smile as he walked in to greet the patient, as had been his habit for so long. It suddenly dawned on him that he was wasting his effort for this one.

"Well, hello, again, Matthew!"

"Hi, Dr. Woodard! Long time, no see!" Matt grinned as he extended his hand to the elderly gentleman. "I'm sure that joke got old a long time ago for you, but I can never resist." He sat back in the examination chair as the doctor pulled the stool with the squeaky wheels up in front of him.

"I'm not usually one to make that statement, myself. Some people these days are so politically correct, and I certainly don't want to get sued. Although, I do know this young lawyer fellow..." he chuckled as he readied his equipment. "How have you been? I see your picture in the paper quite a lot these days."

Matt's smile faded. "The tabloids never have enough fodder. Spider-Man must have taken a vacation, because they have this wild notion that I put on a costume and run around the city fighting crime these days. Can you believe that?"

"No, I can't. All they have to do is ask me, and I can vouch for you that there's no way Matthew Murdock, attorney-at-law, could possibly do that, because he's one hundred percent, tee-totally blind, and has been for years. Maybe I should write a letter to the editor of that rag."

"Don't waste your time, because I already have a lawsuit pending against them for defamation of character and whatever else we can think of. But if I do need an expert witness, I'll keep you in mind, okay?" Matt's smile returned. "Shall we get on with this little ritual?"

Dr. Woodard pulled the slit-beam lamp between himself and Matt. "Lean forward, and put your chin on the rest. I'm going to see how your cataracts are doing."

"Well, doc, the view never changes from this side," Matt quipped as he felt for the bar and leaned into the machine. He could feel the heat of the lamp, and hear the doctor's measured breathing as he looked at both of Matt's eyes.

"Okay, you may sit back now." Dr. Woodard snapped off the light and pushed the machine to the side.

He sighed deeply.

"What? Bad news? I'm going to have to give up driving?" Matt chuckled nervously, trying to break the tension in the room.

"Well, no, can't say that's what I have to tell you." The doctor sighed again wearily. "It seems that your cataracts have deepened. That's not a really big deal since you can't see anyway. The only reason we would remove them would be cosmetic at this point, just like it always has been. Your eyes don't really look much different than they did this time last year. Have you been having any problems? Headaches? Pain in or behind your eyes?"

"Uh—well, since you mention it, yes. I have a lot of headaches, but I had convinced myself they were just stress. Sometimes, my eyes get really dry, too, and I use some drops I get at the pharmacy for that. What's the matter?"

"The pressure is really up in both your eyes. I'm going to prescribe some drops for you to keep that down. Again, you wouldn't know, because there's nothing that you could tell since your optic nerves are already damaged. The problem could become that you begin to have enough pain in your eyes that we might have to considered prostheses."

"What?" Matt asked incredulously. "I didn't think I'd have to worry about that."

"Unfortunately, it's something that might happen eventually, Matthew. I know no one ever wants to hear that they have to go through having their eyes removed, but it may become your only option. I'm always pleasantly surprised when I examine you that I don't discover some rare form of cancer from that horrible stuff you got into all those years ago." He removed his glasses and wiped his brow. "You have really been quite fortunate, all things considered, you know."

"Believe me when I say that I know that, doc." Matt replied, nodding solemnly.

Dr. Woodard scribbled a prescription on a pad, tore it off and placed it in Matt's hand. "Get these filled and use them religiously twice a day, okay?"

"Will do, sir. Are we done here?" Matt put his shades back on, preparing to stand up.

"I want to see you again in six months, Matthew. We need to keep check on your ocular pressure. Any questions?"

Matt stood and reached for his cane in the corner of the room. "No, sir. Just, thank you for your candor, and I may take you up on writing me a note to give to the powers that be." He shook hands with the doctor once more, then turned to feel for the doorknob. "See you in six months, then!"

"Goodbye, Matt."

As the door closed, Dr. Woodard noted a few things in Matt's chart. _Continue to monitor ocular pressure. Return to clinic in six months for re-evaluation. Continue to monitor cataract growth and atrophy of the eye itself. Possible candidate for bilateral enucleation at later date._

The elderly man closed the folder and put it on the desk. He sighed heavily again, and thought about the bad news that he just had to lay on Matthew Murdock. _As if the guy didn't have enough on his plate already, with all this tabloid nonsense. Can't they just look at him and tell that he's blind? Doesn't take a rocket scientist, or even an old ophthalmologist, to see that. Nothing has changed since his accident, until just now. And it's for damn sure that he'll never be anything but blind. Can't they cut him a break?_

He picked up the folder again, and took it out to the nurse's station. "Make sure you schedule Mr. Murdock for an appointment with Dr. Lawton, will you, Angela? I didn't have the heart to tell him that I'm retiring at the end of next month. He's had enough bad news to last him for a while. Thanks."


	6. Common Threads

Ripple Effect: Common Threads

"Right this way, Mr. Murdock." Mr. Lee paused, realized his momentary lapse of discretion, and continued, "Oh, pardon me, sir. Would you prefer to take my arm? The back workroom can be quite a jumble sometimes."

Matt Murdock smiled, nodded his acceptance, and reached out for Mr. Lee's upper arm. It would probably have been more comfortable for Matt to have placed his hand on the diminutive tailor's shoulder, but sometimes protocol takes precedence, Matt thought. He followed the little man through the narrow confines of the tailor shop, past the racks of suits waiting for their new owners, past the bolts of fabric and the humming sewing machines in the workshop, where a radio somewhere on a shelf squawked out tinny music. At the end of another corridor, Mr. Lee came to a halt, entered some numbers into a keypad, and ushered Matt into a room that seemed much quieter than the rest of the building.

"Got some new security, Mr. Lee?" Matt didn't recall the cypher lock on the "back workroom" before.

"These days, one can never be too careful, so yes, I put a lock back here to keep out anyone who might decide to wander too far looking for a restroom or something. I would hate for the wrong person to find out just how good a tailor I really am, and for whom." He laughed at his own little joke. "After all this time, it would be terrible for you to have to take your business elsewhere."

"Indeed it would."

Matt had attempted to make his own costume when he decided to avenge his father's murder, and used Battlin' Jack Murdock's boxing robe for part of it. Crime fighting was rough on the duds, and he'd soon worn them out. He realized that he was a better crime fighter than tailor, so he procured a Daredevil costume from a shop that made the costumes for wax museums and Halloween rentals. It really seemed odd to get a costume that was a takeoff on the one he'd made himself, but he had more practical things to worry about.

Things like practicing law with his partner and college roommate, Foggy Nelson. Their small time practice didn't bring in many high-paying jobs, and on occasion, Matt and Foggy would find themselves bartering legal services for some pretty bizarre things in lieu of cold, hard cash. That had been the case with Wan Lee, who offered them each a custom suit of clothes in return for helping him out of a jam with a testy landlord who had wanted to triple his rent without warning.

"Wow, Matt...I've never had a real custom suit before. I mean, I've had a couple of nice ones from the store that they altered to fit me, but nothing like this." Foggy was fondling the various fabrics that Mr. Lee had presented for their inspection. "Feel this, Matt! I didn't think wool could be this soft!" He grabbed Matt's wrist and shoved the bolt of textile into his hands. "This is a real dark grey, almost black, Matt. We're gonna look like bona fide lawyers for real!"

"Simmer down, Fog. Don't go getting all orgasmic about the merchandise," Matt chuckled. He'd never had anything but an off-the-rack suit from a cut-rate department store up until now, and honestly, he was pretty stoked about a new suit, too.

"Please, come back to the fitting room, gentlemen." Matt grabbed Foggy's shoulder and trotted along behind his portly buddy. Foggy had his fitting first; Matt could hear the tailor bouncing around the room, scribbling notes on a pad of paper. Then it was Matt's turn to be measured.

"Uh, Mr. Lee, please tell me what you're going to do before you do it. I'd hate to flinch and accidentally knock you over or something..."

"Not a problem, sir. Now, to which side do you dress?"

The suits had been fantastic. Foggy and Matt both returned for others over the years. What Foggy didn't know for a long time though, was that Matt had also entrusted his **other** suits to the nimble fingers of Mr. Lee. It had not been long before the costume shop closed where Matt had purchased his second outfit, when the owner was incarcerated for crimes committed as "The Gladiator". Mr. Lee had been so happy to serve the young lawyers, and Matt felt he was a trustworthy man. Matt outlined to Mr. Lee exactly what he wanted, and the tailor never skipped a beat when he confided in Matt that he should use red for his costume, rather than the yellow and brown. "You look like a bumblebee, not a devil... not that you would know, I suppose. Let me make you a proper costume. You want to scare these crooks to death, not make them die laughing, Matthew." Matt knew he had the right guy from that moment on.

Matt had almost put the costume behind him after he won the lawsuit against the tabloid for outing him as Daredevil, but recent events had forced him to return to his crime fighting nightlife. So, today Matt was there in Mr. Lee's workroom to pick up a new batch of costumes, as well as a new spring weight suit and a couple of shirts. They would be on the outside of the hangers that held his costumes, just in case anyone unzipped the garment bag hanging in his office. Mr. Lee could keep a secret, but Matt was never quite sure if Foggy might decide to take a peek at his new duds, and he couldn't risk having the office temp seeing what **else** was in the bag.


End file.
